Attacked in the ghetto

When I think of the deaths in Iraq of two courageous members of a TV film crew, and the maiming of the reporter, what happened to us in a bleak Parisian suburb fades to nothing.

But then, what happened to me actually was nothing. It was the unfortunate photographer working with me who suffered. In the last few seconds of the couple of minutes we were apart, she was beaten to the ground, punched and kicked and robbed of her expensive camera and other possessions.Â

Lana Wong is a delightful American lady, born in New York to Hong Kong parents. Married to a Briton and living in Paris, she previously worked for five years in Africa.

Nothing happened to her in Africa to resemble her first encounter with danger in the French ghettoes. Mugged in broad daylight on the "nice" side of the street across from one of the tenements of Les Bosquets, a grim housing estate in Montfermeil.

Neighbours in the 5th arrondissement were aghast. "But you just don't go to such places," said one. And by and large, of course, the French – most French – don't.Â

It is one of the places where trouble first erupted in last autumn's rioting, after two boys were electrocuted in a power substation, apparently while running from police, in neighbouring Clichy-sous-Bois.

Lana and I went there to see the mayor, Xavier Lemoine, whose town hall and own home were besieged during the violence of Monday night. He's the hardliner who tried to counter delinquency by banning teenagers from assembling in groups of more than three.

Anyone who has seen the gangs in action, or come across the results, recognises the problem, whatever differing solutions spring to mind.

One (white) taxi driver told us the present lawlessness was the product of years, maybe decades, of softly-softly policing in which no-go areas were created and all types of authority flouted.

He sounded like a man who might associate Singapore with namby-pamby liberalism, but said he'd settle for American-style zero tolerance and draconian police tactics.

Lana Wong

Another cabbie (black, originally from Togo and now living in Clichy) made no excuses for the cowards who had assaulted Lana, but also spoke of the discontent fuelled by rampant racism in French society. "Look at the other taxis," he said as we drove along the Left Bank quais. "You'll be hard-pressed to see another black face among the drivers."

In any event, Lana and I thought our duty as journalists required us to seek the views of not just the mayor but those living in Les Bosquets. I now hear – ironically, given Lemoine's anti-gang policy (suspended after a legal challenge) – that one of the big news agencies stipulates that staff must work in groups of four in such areas, especially at night.

We were there in the afternoon. We had spoken to people, and Lana had taken photographs, in the dodgiest, most rundown tenement of the complex, all without incident or serious hint of menace.

On our way back to the town centre, Lana wanted quite unnecessarily, on reflection, considering the images she already had – what photographers call general views, capturing the estate behind a nameplate or a sign urging drivers to look out for the 3,500 children living there.

All was calm. There were lots of cheerful enough Bonjours, no one seemed put out by our presence. Between us, we lowered our guard. I had a doctor's prescription and there was a pharmacy. I went inside as Lana took one last picture. As she did so, some teenagers appeared at a distant doorway and shouted at her to stop. She was not seeking to photograph them but instantly obeyed, packing camera back into bag.

For some reason, she decided to wait outside the pharmacy rather than join me inside. Suddenly, two, maybe three youths pounced from behind. Before anyone in the shop knew what was happening, the attack was over. In her bag was the brand new and uninsured – camera, a wallet containing cash and credit cards and, as she realised later to her horror, the keys to her flat.

After the chemist's staff had patched up Lana, I left her in the safety of a taxi while searching for someone who might mediate with her muggers. It was a long shot; but a young man of north African origin offered to get the camera back – "probably not the rest" for 300 euros, including a cut for his troubles.

He claimed to know "ces petits noirs" who were her likely assailants, but only he could retrieve the gear.

If I'd had the money, I'd have taken the gamble for Lana's sake. He seemed plausible, even if I guessed the chances of seeing him again, or the camera, wouldn't be much higher than 10 or 15 per cent. But I'd been more cautious than Lana, and simply wasn't carrying enough money to interest him. My cards were at home. Lana, by now, had nothing.

The police naturally discouraged any such idea. But one officer, acknowledging the slim prospects of their own inquiries leading very far, agreed that such methods, imperfect and wrong as they are, sometimes brought results.Â

Lana is left hobbling around her flat, poorer to the tune of more than 5,000 euros (only a small part can be claimed back out of the 1,200 euros she was charged for having her locks changed).

Both of us are angry with ourselves, me in particular for not being with her however unthreatening things then seemed – when she was attacked. Or for not realisingÂ what was going on outside as I stood at the counter.Â

My presence would not necessarily have saved her possessions, and I am not especially brave or noble. But I am old-fashioned enough to wish that I had been there to take her beating.